When I was briefly overtaken by a small flock of hens and a handsome rooster on the last day of my visit to New Orleans, I felt suddenly I didn't know where I was. The heat had let up under cover of clouds just long enough that I was pretty sure I wasn't hallucinating. Just after they scuttled away under the awning of a house with a fading banner announcing the arrival of the red cross, I met Mr. Sneed who told me where the hens lived.
He walked me to the in an empty house accross the street from where he lived and told me how they slept up in the tree hugging the side of the place. It's only been a short while since this little flock hatched, he reassured me, it's not the usual thing around here. It reminded me of the rooster I came across in Syracuse. Mr. Sneed denied any cockfighting even though it was a right handsome rooster and the kind known to be used for the sport.